


bruises

by fairbanks



Series: goretober 2018 [14]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bruising, Gen, Goretober 2018, brief mention of vague gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 07:31:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16342463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/pseuds/fairbanks
Summary: Gertrude visits and is kind enough to bring tea with her spooky hate books.





	bruises

  1. **bruises**



  
  


Jurgen always takes a moment to check her eyes before ushering her in to the bit of the tunnels he’s made uniquely his own. “You may as well ask me for a password, Jurgen,” Gertrude tells him, and Jurgen Leitner chuckles at the image of tree houses and secret codes between children.

 

“You can never be too careful- you taught me that.”

 

“The world and consequences both have taught you that long before I have,” Gertrude responds, hanging her coat on the back of an old chair. “I simply reminded you with words.”

 

The room is as close to homey as Jurgen can afford, which meant everything inside could be moved or disposed of in a moment’s notice. He had no time for safety or sentimentality and even less for luxury, not anymore. There were times he accepted it all gladly, a punishment well deserved- there were other times his bones felt old and he thought it would be damn nice to have at least a space heater.

 

Gertrude releases a bag of books upon the table, many he recognizes immediately. “My, you have been busy,” he comments as he pulls up a rickety chair, sits and regards the veritable minefield of unimaginable horror before them, all condensed to pages.

 

“Yes, I found something of a hoard this time around. Trophies of a far gone hunter, or perhaps weapons in their arsenal. I assume you’ll know better as we sort through.”

 

“How did you manage against a hunter?” Jurgen asks and watches Gertrude’s lips thin in a humorless smile.

 

“With great difficulty.”

 

Jurgen makes tea from leaves Gertrude kindly brought with her, all on a camping stove in another room. It wasn’t a stove to be used indoors, fumes and what not, but there were some risks he was willing to take. A life without tea and the occasional warm meal was not worth the lack of health hazards, in his humble opinion.

 

He returns with the tea and Gertrude’s already sorted the books into basic categories, likely by domain. Gertrude takes her tea with a truly heinous amount of sugar, and as the empty paper packets stack defiantly up Jurgen tries not to sip his own cup with too much judgment. He fails, if the piercing look she gives him is any indication. It’s an old argument so she simply raises her cup and brow in unison before taking a sip.

 

“Vile,” he informs her.

 

“Quite.”

 

It’s then she pulls off her jacket, just as Jurgen was about to turn his attention to the books. Impossible now, as compelling as they were, since the skin around Gertrude’s exposed neck and forearms were such ugly shades of black and purple Jurgen thought her ill for a brief moment. But no, the mottled marks snaking up and around her skin were clearly bruises, dark and deep. Gertrude’s skin was aged, thin in the delicate way of the last blooms of life, a stage and state Jurgen was all too familiar with. Maybe that’s why they seemed so dreadfully stark- perhaps they simply were dreadful.

 

And of course he stares too long to feign ignorance, so Jurgen decides to throw social caution to the wind. “My word Gertrude, are you quite alright?”

 

“Don’t be theatric, Jurgen, or I may actually believe you think me frail enough to falter at a few bumps and bruises,” Gertrude clicks her tongue, and Jurgen nearly rolls his eyes like a teenager.

 

“‘A few bumps and bruises,’ at first glance I thought you fell victim to a skin disease.”

 

“And came here to take you down with me? I’m glad to see your paranoia is thriving.”

 

“Please, Gertrude, we can quip over how you’d kill me when I know you aren’t hiding a worse injury on top of this,” Jurgen sighs, and wishes he could say he was merely joking. Gertrude was such a stoic soul he had no doubt she would suffer most injuries in silence and solitude.

 

Gertrude sits back, her wry edge dulling to a curious sort, eyes mapping the bruises up her arms and tone in monologue. “I just realized that only a few years ago I would have taken the upmost precaution to be sure no one saw such a thing. Too many questions, too much attention and concern, perhaps an attempt at feigning normalcy long gone. Yet here we are, and I didn’t even consider it.”

 

“You’ve lost your patience for playing pretend,” Jurgen offers, then says more dryly, “or you are growing unwisely at ease in my company.”

 

Gertrude looks to him then, all the sharp paranoia and unblinking gaze. It seems to flicker like a channel changing, one radio station switched for another, and the corner of her lips quirk just so. “A dreadful mistake, I’m sure.”

 

“I should get you ice, before you distract the matter further,” says Jurgen, and Gertrude waves a hand in dismissal.

 

“No, they’ll fade quickly enough. It was a… scuffle, you could say. The Lightless Flame sending a victim desperate enough to attack an old lady, if it meant saving what he loved. Of course it didn’t, but I can hardly blame the man for trying. Then the hunter after that- cleaner, thanks to Dekker, but hardly without complication.”

 

“You’re fighting hunt-mad killers and I find myself fleeing an angry goth,” Jurgen sighs, and he knows well enough he’s never been made to fight. Gertrude was hardly fighting material either, not great warrior or particularly clever strategist, but she was ruthless. Gertrude Robinson did not lose if there was still life left in her, no matter the cost.

 

Jurgen found that comforting, most days.

 

“Well, since you won’t allow me to help you traditionally I can give you some interesting stories regarding these books,” he says, and a hungry glint in Gertrude’s eyes reminds him of light reflecting off teeth. He still didn’t know how much of her curiosity was her own and how much she grew into to survive. “This one here is Desolation touched, though I suspect the Distortion has meddled in it as well.”

 

“An unpleasant combination, but there are no two together I’d call pleasant,” says Gertrude, and Jurgen shakes his head.

 

“Indeed.” And he tells her the story of a woman, the maze-like shape of intestines and organs being cooked alive.


End file.
